


Freedom of Today

by SylviaW1991



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), But who's counting anymore?, Frivolous Miracles, Honeymoon, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sort Of, Suit Porn, Time is hard, Top Crowley (Good Omens), soft angst, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaW1991/pseuds/SylviaW1991
Summary: In 1923, there was a chance. They could've kissed down there in that speakeasy, trying and failing to dance. They could've acted on mutual want. They parted ways instead and didn't speak of it again.But a century later, there's more than a chance. They're on their honeymoon and no one can tell them no.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 110
Collections: Holly Jolly July: a Good Omens Gift Exchange, Top Crowley Library





	Freedom of Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imnotokaywiththerunning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnotokaywiththerunning/gifts).



> I sincerely hope it's your cup of tea! 💖 Your prompts were so open-ended and so delightful to work with.
> 
> So second of all, thank you to the ever-present [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface), who has slid in as always to beta. And special thanks to [Sk3tch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sk3tch/pseuds/Sk3tch) for the same, regardless of how much or how little she feels she did. They're both wonderful and lovely and talented. Any mistakes left are entirely mine. 
> 
> Also thanks to [EveningStarcatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningStarCatcher) for organizing this Holly Jolly July event! Such a lovely thing to be part of, and so much fun giving and gifting in the spirit of fandom!

_The approach of a man’s life out of the past is history,_

_and the approach of time out of the future is mystery._

_Their meeting is the present,_

_and it is consciousness,_

_the only time life is alive._

_The endless wonder of this meeting is what causes the mind,_

_in its inward liberty of a frozen morning,_

_to turn back and question and remember._

_The world is full of places._

_Why is it that I am here?_

—Wendell Berry, The Long-Legged House 

* * *

There had been a speakeasy under this building. It had been a hotel then, just as it was now. 1923, he recalled, slipping into a corner booth. A young lady swiftly approached with a menu in hand, but he didn't look at either before ordering two whiskies on the rocks. As she walked away, he wondered if the speakeasy was still there. Perhaps it was used as storage for their kitchens or their rooms now? Perhaps both. Shelves of linens and dishes instead of an open dancefloor and a bar, tensions high because one wrong word to one wrong person could've caused quite the disaster to come crashing down on everyone. 

They hadn't known, that night, that they'd been protected by an angel and a demon who'd only wanted to forget for a few hours. 

He leaned back, eyes closing as a saxophone started crooning in the small stage in the corner. The band had been bigger. He could almost hear it... 

Horns and saxophones and an oboe, a clarinet to boot. Fast, lively music from a new thing called jazz filled the room. Young ladies in skirts short enough to horrify their mothers kicked their feet, waved their arms, kissed who they wanted, smoked and drank and danced. He remembered watching two in particular. 

A blonde and a brunette - how classic - doing the Charleston together and laughing. They'd kissed one another on the floor, and nothing had happened. Anything was allowed in a speakeasy. For them, he knew, the chance to kiss somewhere around people who wouldn't bother or judge them had been freeing. As beautiful as their dance. 

Sitting in a corner booth, an angel had envied them. He'd sipped weak whiskey, illegal and watered down to make it last. Prohibition had been an accident on one angel's part, a want for moderation to help prevent deaths in the new-fangled automobiles turning into a full amendment to their Constitution. It had been insane, but he'd been alone. No one to balance his blessings and perhaps he'd gone overboard in a bid to tempt a tempter back into his life after an 1862 spat. He'd just felt so _alone_ after the horrors of an American Civil War, a global Great War, and equally global Spanish Flu - horribly named, all. 

He'd laid his head down on the table, wishing - not praying, no, couldn't risk anyone Upstairs hearing those sorts of things from an angel. He'd wished for a demon. He'd wished, in that weak moment of alone, that they could be as free as the two young ladies with their linked arms and their laughter. 

Then his demon had appeared. 

Sat across from him, touched their shoes together, set a glass down on the table with a thud. _“Y'know, last time I took an extended nap, the world was nice enough to get itself out of trouble. This time, it's just been one cock-up after another. So bad they've gotten themselves a new horseperson?”_

No mention of holy water. Nothing of their argument. Not even a proper hello. How like him. 

The angel remembered sitting back, embarrassed to have been caught in such despondency. He hadn't been able to see the full outfit from where they sat, but the suit jacket the demon had tossed onto the table was black with burgundy pinstripes. The shirt he wore underneath was the same deep red, and the angel had watched him roll the sleeves up to his elbow, let his gaze follow black suspenders until they disappeared beneath the table. He'd taken a drink and he'd wished-

_“It's been... very busy. Now that the world can fully communicate with one another, their squabbles are a bit less, ah, insular.”_

And so the chat had gone, warnings and explanations of the things the demon had missed during his nap. Things to help the tempter, a subtle way to fill in his gaps should any impending arrival question him. In the ignorant ways of Hell, the demon had received commendations for the more wicked things which had happened during his sleep. 

Eventually, it had become clear that the States wouldn't be safe for the angel. Not in that decade, not with powerful beings from Hell surfacing. Beelzebub themself, apparently, and his demon with his rolled up sleeves and equally weak whiskey had warned him. 

No talk of their row, of wanting holy water, but he'd warned him out of the States and given him tasks across the globe to help soften Heaven’s potential rebukes. 

_“When are you expecting company?”_

_“Tomorrow.”_

The angel's gaze had drifted back to the girls and their joy and their freedom. Tomorrow had felt so far away. 

_“What're you looking at, angel?”_

_“The dancing. I believe it's called the Charleston.”_

_“I thought you were loyal to the gavotte.”_

_“Oh, hush.”_

He'd wanted to pretend. He'd drained his whiskey and rose to go try this new freedom. It's what dancing was, wasn't it? A freedom with a few, ever-changing rules. While the gavotte was and would always be his favourite, he wanted to try more. 

Long legs had surprised him by following. They'd never danced together. No, no, they had. In high society courts the few times the demon had arrived in hooped skirts and a tight corset. Information exchanged over a sloppy waltz because she'd been all hips in a dance which required no hip movements. He was better here, the steps loose and _fun_. 

Surely, they'd both wanted to forget. Sides and Great Plans and horsepersons and _tomorrow_. They'd wanted to forget. For one night in 1923, they'd let themselves. Too much whiskey, miracled to be stronger by one or both of them, had been tossed back again and again until they'd been stumbling more than dancing. 

It was the first glimpse they'd really gotten of possibilities. A taste of freedom around so many others in need of an escape. It had been _fun_. That's what the angel remembered most, that bright and bubbling feeling of absolute joy. 

But, oh, how fleeting it had been. Like clinging to wisps of smoke, it had wafted away. They'd almost kissed. The angel still tingled from the memory of it, another stumble, feet over feet, and they'd suddenly been pressed together in a laughing attempt to stay upright. Until the laughter had faded and they'd stayed close, chests snug, arms still wrapped securely around one another. For a brief moment, lips so close, they'd been no different from the humans around them. 

_“We should sssober up.”_

_“But I...”_

_“If you don't want this sober, we're not doing it.”_

Of course the want hadn't faded. He'd wanted the demon for far longer than that one night at varying degrees of sober, but they couldn't act on it. They hadn't that night. Tomorrow had come and they weren't able to see one another again until 1941. Such was their lives. Until... 

“You look like you're far away.”

Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered as he looked up, smile easy and hand reaching out. “I was a bit.”

Crowley nodded his head towards the two untouched whiskey tumblers, hand fitting easily in the angel's. Aziraphale hadn't even noticed the waitress set them down. “A hundred years back, I'm guessing.”

“You've always been an excellent guesser, darling.”

Crowley slid in beside him, kissing his hand and leaving them linked as he picked up one of the glasses. “Band was better back then.”

“Oh, hush.”

“I'm right. The dance floor was packed.”

Aziraphale smiled. “It certainly was. It was a lovely night.”

“The only one worth anything that decade,” Crowley admitted, and Aziraphale squeezed his hand to keep him from going back that far. To bootlegging and murder and poison, gang violence and economic destruction. Things hadn’t stayed bad forever, and they certainly weren’t now. 

Not when Aziraphale didn’t have to make wishes anymore, and not when neither of them had to forget who and what they were. They could be a demon and an angel _and_ be together. “It was, yes, but any time spent with you has been worth something. I don’t think it’s possible to recall every single moment, not without a miracle, but they’ve all brought us to this.”

Crowley’s shoulders relaxed, frown smoothing into a softer half-smile. “What, gallivanting across the globe?”

Smile bright, Aziraphale wiggled in his seat. “Yes, but I was specifically thinking of our extended honeymoon. And all of the things that word implies.”

For them, it had implied the memories they _could_ remember with ease. Any place that held enough significance over six thousand years had been visited, just to see the differences. Petronius’s restaurant had long since been replaced with a section of homes, but they’d found a different seafood place to dine at, and all of the things Crowley had wanted to do to Aziraphale back in 41 had been done that night. And, oh, did his demon have an imagination.

It was a shame the Bastille had been torn down because, well, _“Do you honestly think I didn’t dress up a bit hoping you would see? The arrest wasn’t exactly planned, but...”_

_“Dunno. Rather liked the arrest. I had to sit against those bars and pretend like I didn’t want to pin your chained-up self to the wall.”_

_“Well... Shall we?”_

That had been a delightful evening in Paris. And there had been so many more besides. They were traveling through time in their own way, taking old yearnings and old wishes and making them reality. It was cathartic in some ways and delightful fun in others. They were happy, and the feeling didn’t have to last a single night.

“What about this place made you remember it?”

Aziraphale hummed, picking up his glass and swirling it before taking a sip. The ice had melted enough to be so familiar, mind whirling back to that night once again. “You remember it too,” he deflected. Not everything was easy yet. Six thousand years was an awfully long time to develop habits.

“Mnnyeah, but probably not for the same reasons. And it was _your_ pick.”

Aziraphale hummed, watching Crowley take a sip of his drink in turn. The silence that settled between them was comfortable, familiar. Aziraphale knew he’d wait as long as need be for him to find his words and push them out, half-formed sentiments and ideas swirling in his busy mind and eventually evolving from deflective half-truths to straightforward full-truths. 

“I hurt you.”

“Oh, angel-”

Aziraphale held up a finger, cutting off the inevitable protest of “demons don’t get hurt feelings” or some other such rot. “I was so morose, Crowley, I’m sure you know that. I know how I must have looked when you first sat with me, and our conversation only did so much considering its serious nature.”

“There were sixty years of ground to cover,” Crowley pointed out, gesturing with his tumbler before knocking back another swallow.

“So there was.” And the blame, they’d already concluded, was mutual. Poor choices on both sides, the bitter words tossed at one another like poisoned darts in St. James’s Park long-since soothed. “And so little of it was good. The new medicines were lovely and much good has come of them since, no matter how much Pestilence wants to... ah... interject their negative opinions on vaccinations to the world wide web.”

Crowley’s lips curved in a way that told Aziraphale he’d used poor terminology, but he lifted his chin and pushed on anyway. He didn’t need to know modern terms to get his point across. “Anyway, I was terribly upset when you appeared and, despite the heavy topics at hand, you inevitably cheered me up. As you always have, dearest. You have quite the talent for, ah, pulling me out of my own thoughts.”

“Not always.”

“Don’t test my patience with modesty, Crowley.” Aziraphale patted his arm, smiling when he laughed. “We had a wonderful night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually attempt to learn the proper steps to a dance before or since, and we were both hopelessly wretched at it.”

“Yeah, but you were...” He faded into wordless sounds, that silly quirk just as much a habit as Aziraphale’s automatic deflections of his feelings and desires. Waiting through them usually yielded the best results and this was no exception. “You were gorgeous. The lighting was so dim underground, but you were glowing.”

He smiled, sliding closer to him in the booth. He wouldn’t have a century before. “I thought you were rather dashing myself.”

Crowley’s blush came and went in a blink. “Did you?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale ran his fingers down Crowley’s simple shoestring tie, turning it into a silk black tie as he’d worn then. His black henley needed only a simple arched brow to turn into a match for the burgundy shirt in Aziraphale’s memory, and the vest was kind enough to go off for a bit. “Impeccable, but so much red. It was quite a surprise to see you in so much colour.”

“Took advantage of the pinstripes,” he explained, not arguing nor surprised when his jacket and denims were replaced with said pinstripes. He’d last worn a proper suit to their tiny wedding, the ceremony more for them than anything, and they’d been in style so long that the outfit didn’t feel _wrong_. The slim-fitting “jazz suit” was a century out of date, yes, but he could humour his angel for an afternoon. 

Aziraphale certainly hoped he would, smile bright when his demon took off the jacket and rolled his sleeves up. “Yes, precisely like that. That’s how I remember you. The sunglasses are wrong, but you had those off most of the night.”

“No one was paying us any mind.”

“No, they weren’t. It was truly delightful, Crowley, to feel... Well, free, I suppose. A dangerous thing at the time, and I suppose I’m still getting used to it. The glimpse we had that night was more intoxicating than the liquor.”

Crowley tipped his head. “That’s not saying much,” he pointed out, smiling when Aziraphale delicately swatted his arm.

“That isn’t the point, my dear. We were having a lovely time, drinking, dancing, forgetting who we were...”

Brows lifting, Crowley sat up a little straighter. “That’s what was going on in your head that night?”

It had never occurred to Aziraphale that they weren’t both doing so. “Yes?”

“I wasn’t forgetting, and I wasn’t pretending. I’ve never ignored the fact that I, mngh, loved an angel.” It was still such a new thing to admit aloud. 

“Ah. Well, you’ve always... You’ve had an easier time with that, leaving Hell behind. Heaven was... harder to let go.” It was extremely difficult to let go of something that should be so completely good, even when all evidence pointed to the contrary. With hindsight, Aziraphale could see hundreds of instances that should’ve resulted in him stepping back and away. Thousands of years of excuses, though, had made him very blind to the abuse. “I had to pretend none of it existed. I pretended we weren’t different from everyone around us and that we were able to be free like them. I was melancholy until you brought the cheer back and I thought…

“It was the first and only time, Crowley, that I wished I wasn’t an angel. Silly, now, to think of being anything else. And quite incredible, I suppose, that such a thing didn’t make me Fall.”

“Why would you even...”

Aziraphale took a fortifying drink. “I wanted you more than I wanted divinity. I never thought... I never dared to hope I could have both, which is why I hurt you. When you said we should sober up, and I... didn’t. So that’s what drew me back here. I want you to know that I have always wanted you exactly as you are. It was myself I wished to change. I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to ask you to stop time for a bit, so the night would last that much longer.

“Your turn now, darling, if you would. That was quite a bit of wishful revelations and introspection on my part, I think.”

Crowley took a sip of his whiskey, letting those wishful revelations and introspections live in his mind. “No, hang on. Why didn’t you go off with me, then? At the bandstand when I offered. If you wanted me more than... Or was it just the alcohol?”

“It’s never been the alcohol, you wily thing. And I think, perhaps, I got a bit selfish. At the bandstand, I did want to say yes. You know I did.” He laid a hand on Crowley’s arm and squeezed, that particular topic still very touchy for them both. “But there was so very much to lose, so many innocent lives at stake. And you, my dear, have always been concerned with innocent lives. Don’t make that face. You know very well I’m correct.”

Crowley continued to make That Face, adding an eye roll after nudging his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. Aziraphale shook his head, a fond smile quirking his lips despite himself. “I’d never stood up to Heaven before when lives were at stake. Through all the mass smitings or even the smaller problems, I never let myself think Heaven was incorrect, but I did that day. It was too far, Crowley, and I didn’t want to... well, I didn’t want to let you down. I couldn’t go with you because I wanted it all. You, my halo, and the world.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Crowley asked, golden eyes as soft as his smile.

“Terribly. My husband’s very demanding.”

Laughing, Crowley relaxed against the seat. “You poor thing.”

“Oh, I most certainly am. Thankfully, he puts up with me being equally demanding. Now it’s your turn. I insist.”

Crowley tipped his head to the side, giving in as easily as he always did when it was to please his angel. A gold band _tinked_ against his tumbler when he lifted it for another drink. “You _were_ sad. I was following you for a while, y'know. Soon as you stepped onto that trolley, then when you walked in here and said something to the guard dog masquerading as a host. I saw you order from the barman, saw you watch those girls, and the whole time I planned out exactly what snippy thing I was going to say to you. The plan was to annoy you out of the States.”

“That’s not what you did.”

“You feel love, angel. I feel other things. Those human girls were so happy to be together and you were so _lonely_ , it hurt you. Loneliness is a good time to tempt someone, y’know. It sinks into people and mixes them up and makes them believe all sorts of things that aren’t true, but I’d never seen it in you.” Crowley took his hand again, kissed the back in something so reverent it made Aziraphale’s heart quiver. “It ruined all my plans to be mean to you. All of them, right out the window. In all our meetings, I never found you lonely and hurting, and I knew I’d put it there. Cheering you up was...” He shook his head a bit, as if doing anything but bringing Aziraphale out of all that upset was unfathomable. “I had to.”

Aziraphale lifted his other hand, holding Crowley’s. “You’ve always been so incredibly sweet to me.”

“Don’t spread that around. I’m still a demon.”

“You’re quite a bit more than that, my dear. If it’s any consolation at all, I did want to kiss you. Very much, in fact.”

He grinned, wry and as wicked as ever. “Just kiss? After I embarrassed myself on the dance floor for you?”

“I believe we managed to embarrass ourselves in equal measure. And of course _just_ kiss, you wily serpent. You’re the one who deals in lust.”

“Mmhm. Y’know, angel, I think I saw your eyes go brown for a minute there.” Aziraphale’s brows lifted, lips pursing just a bit in confusion. “S’how full of shit you are.”

Scoffing, Aziraphale released his hand to swat at him instead. “ _Perhaps_ I enjoyed the cut of your suit. That... Well, this style was very suited to your trim frame.”

“Is it?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Fishing for compliments?”

“Do I need to? I can get out my pole.” Aziraphale blinked, cheeks flushing bright when Crowley tossed his head back on a laugh. “ _Fishing_ pole, Aziraphale. Can’t even follow your own bloody analogy, can you? Too busy thinking about me in this suit. This suit _you_ put on me.”

“It’s possible that you’ve corrupted me.” And he didn’t believe for a moment that the double entendre hadn’t been entirely intentional. He knew how his demon worked.

“Oh, no. Your halo’s still very much intact. Almost as shiny as this.” His thumb rubbed against the gold band on Aziraphale’s hand. It matched the one on his own and, really, could there be anything greater?

“My halo’s a touch older than these, my dear. But I expect they’ll both last us another six thousand years.”

“And then some. Maybe I’ll be used to having you then.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale cupped his cheek. “I never want to be used to you.”

“You ridiculous romantic.”

“Pish-posh. You’re worse than I am. _Who_ got down on one knee for whom, hm?”

Crowley was saved from having to come up with a response through his splutters by the waitress returning. She paused mid-question about their readiness to order, Aziraphale realizing he hadn’t even _glanced_ at the offered menu, and returned her ticket pad to her apron pocket. “Are you guys here for the museum?”

“Museum?” Aziraphale wondered, sliding his menu closer as surreptitiously as he could. Which was to say, not very much at all. Sleight of hand was not his forte. 

“There was an old speakeasy down here through the twenties. It supposedly lasted all through Prohibition and then closed right afterwards. Something about preserving the history of oppression.” She smiled apologetically. “Sorry. It's- Well, the way you're dressed and all.”

Crowley smirked. “Well, this is just what my husband wears. And tonight, he's got me playing dress-up for him.”

“That's super cute. Are you guys on vacation?” 

Aziraphale preened. Saying this still gave him a thrill, as much as hearing Crowley call him “my husband.” “Yes. Our honeymoon, actually. But we would, I think, love to see the museum.” 

“Okay. Admission comes with purchase of a drink, so let me print out your ticket and-” She broke off when Crowley offered her a fifty dollar bill, then rummaged in her apron pocket for a pen to quickly check its authenticity. “I'll be right back with your change and receipt.”

“No need for that, my dear.” Aziraphale slid out of the booth, adjusting his bowtie and his well-worn waistcoat. “We'll just make our way down, shall we?” 

“The receipt's your ticket, so-” 

“It'll be fine,” Crowley interrupted, sleeves rolled down as he rose and shrugged into his jacket. He buttoned it neatly, watching Aziraphale's gaze linger on his hands. “Just go back to your register and enjoy the tip.”

A broke college student wasn't overly difficult to tempt, so that's all it took for her to grin at them both. “Thank you so much. I hope you have a great honeymoon.”

They were well into their third month with no sign of stopping yet. Aziraphale took her hand in his, patting the back gently. “I appreciate the well-wishes. Best of luck to you, as well, in all your endeavors.”

It was a simple blessing, bestowed easily before they walked away. “If you bless everyone who says something nice to us-” 

“The world could be a better place? Yes, I do agree.” Aziraphale smiled brightly, linking their arms when Crowley crooked his elbow just so. “It isn't as if you don't give people a touch of bad luck when they're rude to us.”

“Punishing bigotry makes the world better too.”

“One does hope.”

They walked comfortably together, the years since Armageddon't having been used to learn one another in a different way. It was easy, Crowley had said when they'd first tried to take the next steps, to get used to the waiting and the wanting. They'd found it even easier to get used to _having_. It hadn't _started_ easily, the pair of them not at all used to communicating the things they wanted. It was easier and safer for them to keep quiet, to keep wanting and waiting, and it had been for six thousand years. 

Their side was much better.

They wound their way down the hall, remodeling having taken place since the last time they'd been, but the signs were easy enough to follow. “They've changed the lift.”

“Angel, it's been a century.”

His lips formed a little moue, his sigh soft as they stepped into the sleek contraption, arms unlinking so Crowley could lean against the wall. “I hate to see what else they've done, then. What if it's unrecognizable?” 

“Well,” he started in the way he started every idea Aziraphale may not like, “we could always fix it.”

Aziraphale’s pregnant pause said more about his opinion than, “We'll do no such thing.” 

“ _We_ might not, but _I_ might.”

Aziraphale gave him a pleased little look, but smoothed down his coat. “Wily old serpent,” he tutted just the same. It was an old dance, one they knew the steps to very well, but it was comfortable play even without respective Head Offices mucking about in their lives. 

When the lift doors opened, Crowley took his hand rather than relinking their arms, and they stepped out together. The little hallway was pristine, white and new. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly in the silence and cast off a sterile white light. 

The walls had been grey, a little dinghy. Lights had been few and far between, but the bulbs had been golden. 

Not a promising start, but they only exchanged glances and continued on. Down the empty hall and through a door that took them back in time. Aziraphale gasped, free hand reaching up to cling to Crowley’s suit jacket. Oh, there were things that were decidedly modern, done in the name of preservation, but it was just as they remembered besides. The crystal behind the bar was empty and unreachable, protected from sticky or clumsy fingers by plexiglass. Aziraphale could almost see the barman wiping away water rings from the long wooden bar when they approached. 

“Oh,” he murmured, settling on one of the stools. Crowley dropped next to him, the two of them gazing out at the old speakeasy. “They left so much.”

Plexiglass protected words written on the walls, old artwork painted by some hopeful human. It made the booths unreachable, tattered and old as they were. The stage was still there, the dance floor dimly lit. But it looked how they remembered. The colours of the carpet were faded, but recognizable. The wood floors of the dancing area were scuffed, but they'd been scuffed then. The stage had a little display of horns, saxophones, an oboe, and a clarinet. Aziraphale could nearly hear the music. He could nearly see the dancers. He'd blessed the young ladies, he remembered, and hoped they'd lived long, joyous lives. 

Crowley slid off the stool and wandered towards one of the booths, and Aziraphale watched him. Those long, gangly limbs encased in clingy pinstripes which only served to make them seem longer. Long and lean and fit and- 

And beckoning him over. 

Aziraphale blinked and wiggled off the stool to join him, unsurprised to find the plexiglass gone. “Sit,” he instructed and Aziraphale realized it was their booth. Smile soft and fond, he took the seat and waved a hand. This was a new game of theirs, devised and perfected throughout their honeymoon. Recreations, providing new opportunities for past wants. Whiskey, watered down by melted ice, appeared in his hand and colourful shadows filled the room.

It took both of them to fill it, noticing different things as they always had. Aziraphale had noticed the girls, the barman, a tired man on a stool who'd needed just a little nudge to go home and work things out with his wife. 

Crowley had noticed a man hurling in a corner, a woman who couldn't dance trying to catch the eye of a man who wasn't interested, but his friend had only needed a nudge in her direction. 

They'd both noticed the musicians, drawn to artists in their own ways. On the stage, old instruments were whisked up by colourful shadows. Wisps resembling fingers played over keys, but the music clashed until demon and angel bickered over which songs had played when. When a very jazzy cover of “Fat-Bottomed Girls” started to defiantly play, Aziraphale rolled his eyes. _That_ had most definitely not been part of 1923.

But then Crowley sat across from him, touched their shoes together, set a glass down on the table with a thud. “You look more annoyed than morose, angel.”

“The progress one makes in a century,” he replied cooly, lashes fluttering, and smiled when Crowley laughed. 

“I'd love to know where you are in another century.”

“You will,” Aziraphale reminded him, reminded them both. “And I'll know where and how you are, dearest. It's all going to be rather lovely.”

Crowley, removing his jacket and rolling his sleeves up once again, couldn't disagree. “I wouldn't expect less from my angel.”

“Nor I from my demon.”

It wasn't at all the sort of chat they'd had in 1923, but that wasn't the point of these little recreations. It was the setting that mattered, and this had been gifted to them in an unexpected way. If there hadn't been a museum, the little hotel restaurant upstairs would've been shifted and moulded how they wanted it to be. This took considerably less effort and was, in Aziraphale's opinion, truly charming. 

Crowley just thought it was lucky or perhaps a result of something they'd unintentionally left behind. It would hardly be the first time they'd influenced things by accident. And it genuinely didn't matter what had happened or why, not when they could reap the benefits. 

“How did you remember that this was our booth?” 

Crowley lifted his brows. “I marked it.”

“What do you mean, _marked it_?” The plexiglass on the wall was gone when Crowley gestured and Aziraphale scooted over and leaned in, able to see _AJ Crowley_ burned into the wall amongst the human scribblings. Names and dates pressed into a surface to prove they'd been there, humanity craving nothing more than to be remembered even after Death visited. But for a demon's name to be among them- He gasped, sitting back again. “You- That's...”

“I did it that night. After you left. Came to get my jacket and I saw these other names.”

“So you added your own.” He hadn't known about his human-like names then, though he perhaps should have if da Vinci had known him as Antonio. Maybe he just hadn't settled on Anthony yet, or perhaps he'd never intended on telling Aziraphale about his very human choice to have a full name. 

But there it was. A mark which proved he'd been there so long ago. The angel couldn't even be annoyed at him for the property damage. As the song changed, the notes not at all clashing because they both agreed that this had been the song, Aziraphale smiled. “Come dance with me?” 

“That's not how it happened last time. You drifted off mid-sentence and just... got up. Wandered away.” Crowley’s sunglasses ended up on the table next to his suit jacket. “I don't know what the Heaven you were thinking.”

“I wanted the freedom,” he admitted, looking out at the colourful shadows of humans long gone. Twirling and kicking and so fluid. But rather than aching, yearning for the same, Aziraphale knew what it was like. And it wasn't fleeting. It was beautiful. 

He rose, still smiling. “When you followed me, I was so surprised.”

“Ngk. You just... You looked lost, and I wanted to find you.”

“You have. You always have.” Last time, Aziraphale had walked away. This time, Aziraphale offered his hand. 

Crowley didn't hesitate to take it, though they both knew it was going to be an utter disaster. Some things didn't change, and they didn't even have the buffer of too much alcohol to blame for the way Crowley’s hips and limbs did as they pleased or the way Aziraphale’s body tried very hard to add steps of the gavotte. Just as in 1923, they weren't being paid any mind. The shadows and they were in their own worlds, so there was no shame or embarrassment in their very vague attempts at a proper Charleston. There was no shame or embarrassment in their freedom. 

And there was no hesitation when they stumbled, feet over feet, and ended up pressed together in a laughing attempt to stay upright. The laughter didn't have a chance to fade before their lips met. They stayed close, chests snug, arms wrapped securely around one another. Aziraphale let a hand delve into Crowley’s hair, the fluff of it more suited to the current year than the century behind them, but he hadn't wanted to change that without permission. Well, he wouldn't change it with a miracle sans permission. His hands were a different story. They could run through Crowley’s hair as they liked, particularly when the demon pressed him closer and angled just so. His tongue forked and Aziraphale heard his own moan spill into the kiss. 

Neither of them knew what would've happened in 1923 had they not split apart. From where they stood, two shadows sprouted. One went to the barman, no intention of sobering up and ending the night so quickly. The other slinked back to the booth to lick his wounds in the brief privacy it could offer. A century later, things were wonderfully, beautifully different. They didn't part and, soon enough, they found a wall. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped the moment his mouth was free, Crowley’s drifting down to explore the line of his jaw. “You wonderful thing. Is this all you wanted then? Just to kiss me?” 

“You picked it here, angel. What did _you_ want?” 

Sometimes, the rules they'd established weren't fair. Specifically when they inconvenienced Aziraphale. It hadn't been a thought when these recreations had first begun, eager as he was to hear all the things Crowley had ever wanted. To give him those fantasies, that time, all the attention and affection he'd - _they'd_ \- spent millennia wishing for. Admitting to his own wants and wishes, however, was a greater challenge, and it was a very good thing the demon nibbling on his neck had a wealth of patience. 

“I wanted you to kiss me. I wanted there to be no doubt that I was yours and you were mine. I wanted- I wanted freedom, and I wanted to love you.”

Crowley knew there was more, so made his mouth still. “All things you've got, Aziraphale.”

“Yes.” And what cherished things they were to have. It wasn't all. Of course Crowley knew him too well. “I was worried that if I sobered up and kissed you, I would never stop. How silly, I suppose, to fear my favourite pastime.” 

“You didn't know that yet.”

“I could have, though.” Aziraphale let their lips brush together again, sweeter than the moment called for. “I did sober up some, you know. I may have ordered more whiskey, but only so you wouldn't suspect. Because I wanted to know if the wants I had were alcoholic or honest.”

“Oh?” 

“Oh, yes, and they were very honest wants. You in this suit.”

Crowley’s brows lifted. “You have me in the suit.”

“Yes, but I very much wanted you in this suit to have _me_.” Aziraphale tugged at one his suspenders, letting it snap back. The music changed, the saxophone line distantly familiar, undeniably erotic. It was not from 1923 and neither of them particularly cared. “Anytime I've ever thought back to this night, I'd try not to think of that. But they make your legs look even longer and draw even more attention to your hips and, honestly, the way you walk needs no favours.”

“You like how I walk.”

“I like how you do a great many things. Particularly the way you, ah, do me.” Aziraphale’s cheeks went pink at Crowley’s wicked grin, but he pressed on. “And you liked that booth so much you marked your name above the seat. It has a very handy flat surface for us to use, doesn’t it?” 

So it did and so Aziraphale found himself sitting on the edge of the table in a finger snap. His legs wound about Crowley’s slender hips, a hand wrapping around his tie to pull him down for a fresh kiss. “Wily serpent.”

“Thought about this exact thing for monthsss after. And quite a few times in the years since. Came so close to finally getting a taste of you, and it only made things worse.”

“I know, darling, I know.” It had been the same for him, and Aziraphale understood that as well as Crowley. They had quite a lot in common, after all. “You've had more than a taste now.”

“You're a veritable buffet, angel, and I'm never going to stop finding something new.” He snapped, grin wicked at Aziraphale’s shocked gasp. “They were in my way,” he explained, referring to Aziraphale’s very sudden lack of trousers and all that had been on underneath. He was bare-arsed against the table, Crowley dragging him across the surface until Aziraphale had to cling to his husband or risk falling to the floor. “You can have it back once I've had my way with you.”

Aziraphale wiggled, gripping his shoulders, playing with the suspenders. They weren't in fashion anymore, Crowley wearing them a testament to how much he was truly willing to give him exactly what he wanted. What they both had always and would always want - each other. 

Fingers slid down, Aziraphale too aware of the damp digits on his thighs. They trailed over his skin, making him moan softly until one finally found his rim. That deserved a keening sound, and Aziraphale could hardly keep him from having his way. He wouldn't have tried anyway, that first intrusion so careful despite the wicked words and low tones. Despite everything, Crowley was always gentle with this. The first, the second. He took his time, taking Aziraphale apart moment by moment, strokes careful and steady, drinking in his sounds with increasingly sloppy kisses. 

The third was a little rougher, Aziraphale’s back arching as he cried out, as he cried out even louder when that third digit curled just right. “Crowley- Crowley, now, I need-” 

He tugged at the tie, at a suspender, heard Crowley’s hiss of pleasure when the zip of his trousers came undone. Whether by his miracle or an angel's was anyone's guess, but it wasn't nearly as important as the revelation that he wore nothing underneath. He never did, the fact only serving to encourage every fantasy Aziraphale had ever had. It had also encouraged several new ones, would likely spur on several more. 

“Angel,” Crowley groaned, face pressed against his shoulder, fingers sliding free. Aziraphale’s loud reactions to everything, his unbridled enjoyment, only ever served to spur him on. A hedonist in so many things, but he'd waited for this, for _him_ , and Crowley never wanted him to regret that. 

“ _Please_ ,” he breathed, empty without those clever fingers, and then not empty at all as Crowley filled him. Slower, more carefully than a table in an old speakeasy should earn, but how like him. “My darling, my love, _Crowley_...”

Deep and snug, held in a vice grip of an angel, Crowley nipped his neck. He felt him clench around him, body adjusting to the intrusion. His hips shifted, and they both gasped. “For fuck's sake, angel...”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Aziraphale moved this time, grinding as well as he could, feeling fabric rustling against his bare skin. Shirt tails and trousers, sure to bear a wet spot by the time they were through. The very idea of it lit him up as much as the knowledge of where they were and just how good Crowley felt inside of him. “Hurry, please, dear, please.”

“In a rush?” he teased. 

“Oh-” Embarrassed, eager, Aziraphale tried to urge him along with another wriggle. “We could be caught.”

It wasn't likely. The security cameras had politely turned themselves off as they'd entered the room and no one upstairs but one waitress even remembered they existed. “What's wrong with that, angel? One of us is still dressed.”

Aziraphale started to quip that they were both partially dressed when the rest of his clothes vanished. “Crow-! _Oh_!” His indignant attempt at a wiggle had sent sparks of pleasure shooting through him and there was no stopping him from doing it again. 

Crowley leaned over him, a hand braced on the table near Aziraphale’s head. “I think you'd like to get caught, actually. Now that we can be. There's no punishment for this now.” He moved his hips with purpose, a quick piston to make Aziraphale moan. “And how smug you'd be about it. Any nitwit would be jealous of you, getting your fill of me.” 

Aziraphale nodded helplessly, hips rolling to spurn him on. Get more sensation. He'd always been greedy, his want for Crowley knowing no bounds. And, oh, it was true. Getting caught, now that there was no true danger to their safety, _was_ an exciting prospect. And Crowley must've made quite the picture, those trousers clinging to his legs, the burgundy shirt bringing out the fire of his hair and the alabaster of his skin. Of course anyone would be jealous of him for having this. 

Crowley kissed just under his ear and whispered, “The smart ones would be jealous of me. All this soft, pretty skin underneath me. Rose-petal pink - I could look at you for hours. Admire you for six thousand more years and then some.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whined, writhing as Crowley’s hand explored every inch of skin beneath him. Every roll, every stretch mark. He rolled his nipples between his fingers, knuckles, until they were hardened buds and Aziraphale could only whimper and gasp under the ministrations, combined with Crowley’s consistently inconsistent thrusts. Slow, fast, deep, shallow - it didn't matter. Aziraphale couldn't keep up, couldn't predict what would happen next. 

Long fingers dug into plush thighs, pushed his legs higher until Aziraphale locked his ankles around the small of Crowley’s back. He clung to his shoulders, his hair, fingers catching in the suspenders and the red, red shirt being dampened by his weeping cock trapped between them. The brush of fabric against his bare skin was positively sinful, but far from damning. It was far too good for that, Crowley’s name a repeated blessing as he was given everything he could handle and then some. 

Release built between them, marked by Crowley’s praise and filth fading into eager sounds and pleasured hisses, pressed into his skin with the same fervor of every kiss and marking nip of too-sharp teeth. Aziraphale didn't try to stop him, lost to the hedonistic pleasure of his husband and finally able to match the beat of his hips as the thrusts turned towards their goal.

It was rarely together but an abrupt change of angle had Aziraphale’s back bowing and release streaking white over red. And Crowley, caught deep in a velvet vise of pulsating muscles, was pulled right along with him. 

When the high faded, those sharp teeth smoothing into something more human, Crowley kissed him. Soft and breathless, tongues caught in a lazy dance and lips warm and tastes familiar. Still a mystery in 1923. Still a mystery in 2019, really, but times had changed. The freedom Aziraphale had wished for and Crowley had pretended to already have was in their grasps.

Aziraphale smiled when it ended, just as soft, and was happy to let his demon nuzzle their brows together. “You did book the honeymoon suite, didn't you, dearest?” 

“Dunno why you ask me that every single time when you know the answer.”

“I like the word _honeymoon_.”

Crowley laughed, giving them both a chance to feel _that_ rather pleasant sensation before gently easing out. “Of course you do, you old romantic.”

“How very dare you.” Aziraphale lowered his legs, two quick miracles cleaning them and encasing the angel in his familiar, comfortable clothes. “I'm the one,” he continued, a wicked sort of gleam in twinkling eyes, “who suggested we fuck on the table.”

The very rare curse had Crowley spasming in place, his noises belligerent but the delight clear. He pulled Aziraphale back to his feet, sweeping him into another kiss. “Got any other ideas where we could?” 

“Well, let's just see how this honeymoon suite is equipped. Shall we? And I've decided I need a menu,” he added, Crowley picking up his jacket with a fond shake of his head. 

They hadn't yet reached the door, though, before Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, before we go, there's one more thing I'd like to do.”

Before Crowley could ask or protest - and before Aziraphale could change his mind - the angel bustled back to their booth and slid into Crowley’s side. He couldn't and wouldn't have burned his name as Crowley had, but he did quietly and politely insist that the wall dip under his fingertip. 

_A.Z. Fell_ joined _AJ Crowley_ on the wall. Human names in a human place. 

Aziraphale smiled when he felt a hand on his back, Crowley leaning in to see what he'd done. “You're a sap, angel.”

There was too much affection in the words for Aziraphale to take offense. “I'd think you would appreciate my wanting to be with you in all senses, dearest.”

“Ngk,” he protested, but it really wasn't much of one as he drew Aziraphale back out of the booth and into his arms. “Come on. Let's get you some room service.”

“Oh, yes, I am feeling rather peckish.”

An angel took a demon's hand, their fingers lacing as they left yesterday behind to bask in the freedom of their today. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
